To Be Höfðingjar
by Ferro Maris
Summary: Hiccup always planned for his son Nuffink to do great things. To lead the tribe that his father had ruled and his father before him. The Sumar Leikr was just supposed to be a single stepping stone to becoming a great chief, yet rarely do things ever go according to plan...[Post-HTTYD:THW]


To Be Höfðingjar - Sá Sumar Leikr

* * *

Nuffink let out a unsteady breath. The only sound to vibrate through the small chamber made it echo a thousand times louder than it had actually been exiting his body. The nervousness of his heart was at war with his normally calm and collective nature. He had trained for this his entire life, he had trained to prove to everyone he was the warrior that would lead them to the great beyond. He kept trying to tell himself that he was ready, yet every time he repeated it to himself it felt more like a lie than the truth.

Gripping his chin by his hands and cracking his neck, twisting his head side to side, their was momentary relief in the popping sensation down the base of his skull to the top of his shoulders. Yet when the sound finally dissipated into the cold stone walls, the loneliness and fear seemed to creep back in, trying to rip away at the armor he wore inside himself.

_I won't let Berk down, I won't let my family down! _Again trying to tell himself thoughts that only seemed to discourage him even more. The light but unmistakable sound of hundreds of feet pitter pattered against the wood boards that made up the ceiling of his small stone chamber. He knew the entire tribe would be gathered, as was normal for an occasion such as this. It was the time of the Summer Trials, when the Hooligans of New Berk and any neighboring tribes would put forth their most promising, young warriors to do spar battle with one another. It was friendly sport, to be stopped upon the first sight of true damage to an opponent and Nuffink understood this, yet the fear still lingered. This was his first year in the trials, and the fear of the unknown future was most unsettling to the young Berkian.

Rising to his feet and drawing together wobbly knees he reached for his shield and axe, which had been carefully hung on the small weapon and armor racks that surrounded his small chamber. Making sure to secure the light but sturdy shield to his arm by the thick leather back strap, each pull on the tightening mechanism seemed to give him small moments of self-reassurance to the oncoming battle. Glimpses of hope that he would be alright and had nothing to fear.

Pausing for another moment, axe in hand, he made his way through the doorway which exited into a larger gathering area where a few of the other warriors and close-supporters had formed small clicks of conversation. Hushed and quiet as they were, it was a sinking feeling in his stomach to see some of them glance his direction before returning to their whispers. He could see their doubt, he knew he was untested, and the glares and quick glances only confirmed to him that the other warriors _knew that too._ Normally someone as young as Nuffink, being only sixteen summers old, would not be allowed to participate in the trials which involved warriors reaching into their twentieth summer. Yet Nuffink was the some of a Chief, and not just any Chief, he was the son of Hiccup Haddock, a Viking whose fame as a dragon master was well spread, _borderline legendary_, across the islands of their neighboring tribes.

The cold exterior air reinforced by the harsh stone walls only seemed to eat away at his bones and any courage that lingered there even further. Rolling his shoulders back and throwing his head around searching for a cracking relief was unmet with satisfaction and instead he looked on to the large gate at the exit of the gathering area. The gate that lead into the arena and the unknown future that Nuffink feared yet superficially yearned for. This was his chance to become _úlfheðnar_, and he wouldn't miss the opportunity.

Finally relaxing and furrowing his brow, he begun to understand what he had to do. He would _silence_ the doubters, he would defeat all those they sent at him. He was untested and fresh to the battlefield, but he knew today that those qualities meant nothing to him, and today he would prove those qualities should mean nothing to _everyone else. _

It was like a great wave of courage sent from the Valkyries had swept over him and in that moment; all the fear, all the doubt, departed his mortal body. Falling to a knee facing the large structured gate, he lowered his head to the handle of his axe, pushing the double edged blade into the course ground. Closing his eyes, he prayed to the all-father, to Odin for his knowledge and protection from evil. Then to the Odinsson. First; the mighty god Thor, for his strength and ferocity in battle, then to Baldr, for his invulnerable skin and protection from harm. He prayed and thanked the gods, for today he would not only prove himself to all mortals present, but to the Gods who watched above. _Today, he would be victorious._

* * *

Zephyr had not planned to arrive later than the rest of her family to the Summer Trials. Yet when she did, she could all but hide from her mother's unamused stare compounded with her father's emotionless face. She knew she had promised she would be on time, but...well...the Summer Trials were for the warriors of Berk, and seeing as though Zephyr had yet to declare herself as a skjaldmær or shieldmaiden to the tribe, she didn't _count_.

It was because of this that she could not partake in the games, even though she was older than her brother by nearly three summers. Yet that did not mean that Zephyr was not a warrior in her own right however, her mother was _Astrid Hofferson_ after all. She could remember as far back as the gods would let her to the early morning routines and days defeating the armies of the forest with her mother. They were good memories, and they had trained and honed her skills not only as a warrior, but as a woman as well. It had brought her confidence to know the things she did. Better that then some house maid to a poor excuse of a warrior trying to get famous. Her stomach churned and she visibly cringed at the thought of it.

Her attention finally pulled from her thoughts and fond memories to the arena that lay in front of her. With it's sturdy stone walls and torches lining the inner ring, it had been the first arena built not to fight dragons in any member of Berk's known memory. Beyond the fighting center of the arena stood a pantheon of seating, high into the sky and covered by a sort of _shading_ mechanism her father had designed during the arena's construction. Beyond what the mortal eye could see, she knew of the complex undergrowth that supported the arena. Vast tunnels and chambers that stretched around the like the roots of a tree had been built in the ground during the construction to support the mere-logistics of an arena this size. A testament to her father's engineering prowess.

The gate within the ring begun to open slowly, the rattling of chain links gripping and pulling on one another was loud and eerie across the arena. The wood and metal combination that made up the door frame creaked and groaned like an old man as it was hoisted up by the chains, it's weight pulling back against the mechanism. Beyond the door, Zephyr could make out the unmistakable breastplate and armor of her brother, Nuffink. Brassed silver and leather combinations with an etched black night fury thrown in the center of his breastplate a clear sign that he belonged to House Haddock. Her father after all, had taken the sigil of a Night Fury shortly after the dragons disappearance from the world.

Stepping forward into the arena, armed with his shield and axe, Zephyr watched her brother with keen eyes. His stride was one of confidence, _good, she thought_, yet his head was lowered, as if he was carefully watching each step in front of him, careful not to trip up and embarrass himself in front of anyone who was anything in the isles. Yet she couldn't help but feel that small twinge inside her stomach. Her brother was trained well, by their mother, Astrid Hofferson and by their fathers friend, Eret Eretsson, both of which were accomplished and seasoned warriors in their own right. She played the thoughts for a moment longer, finally wishing them to cease. She trusted her brother, but more importantly, she trusted his training.

Once in the center of the arena, she could see him do a full turn around the arena, ostensibly absorbing the atmosphere of his surroundings. The arena was erupting with shouts and cheers, it was her brothers first time in the ring as an actual combatant, and as the heir of Berk, he received an expected and likewise welcome. This was the first of the summer trials held on New Berk that she could remember, and as such the majority of the crowd was of course, her tribesmen. However the arena was not without dignitaries and folk from the surrounding isles. Representatives from the Bog Burglars, sure as to never miss an opportunity to prove their battle prowess had arrived near a fortnight before the trials had even begun. They were quickly followed by the Meatheads, lead by Thuggory Mogadonsson, and the Ugly-Thugs lead by Gizur Guffnr shortly therefor after. Perhaps the most interesting arrival to the trials had been the arrival of the Skelter Tribe hailing from the island of Skelter. Relatively unknown to the tribes of the Barbarian Archipelago, the Skelterian's rarely ventured far enough south to even _converse_ with the other tribes.

Their arrival had been something of a debate within the inner circle of her father's court. They weren't sure to kick them out or allow them to stay, for the Summer Trials was a celebration of the archipelago's warrior-skill and the court had yet to determine if the Skelterians even counted as a tribe of the archipelago. Besides, no one was even sure if they had _invited the Skelterians in the first place._

The crowd had begun to quiet down, drawing Zephyr's attention back to the arena, their eyes all slowly shifting towards her now kneeling position. It was like something out of a nightmare, watching thousands of small beady white eyes turn towards her. She could feel herself beginning to shutter and look around, her face growing red with anticipation. However she quickly realized by the quiet footsteps behind her, they were in fact not looking at her, yet instead they were looking at her father. Who had stood from his chair overlooking the arena and quietly strode towards the edge of their balcony, now standing almost directly behind her.

* * *

Today was an important day for Hiccup, it was the day he saw his boy become a man, the day Nuffink became one of the víkingr to call Berk home. Additionally it happened to also be in front of the dignitaries and chieftains of every surrounding tribe, which would secure Nuffink as his legitimate heir; not only in blood, but through action as well. _Oh how his father, Stoick, would have loved to see this day._

As a father, it had become increasingly clear to him the importance of being fair yet stern with a growing child. After all the years of feeling unimportant and on the receiving end of unnecessary cruelty from his own father, he had finally begun to understood why his father had been the way he was. The tribe was a complex and intricate series of personalities attempting to work together, and it's chief needed to be someone who could adapt and handle everything and then _more._

Hiccup wished he hadn't been unnecessarily mean to his son however, he remembered the lonely nights feeling unloved, crying himself to sleep. The nights spent weeping and praying to the gods for a new life or new father. Howbeit in the end, Toothless had been what the gods sent, and in turn it had changed Hiccup from the measly boy to the leader his people needed. He only wished Nuffink shared his own enthusiasm for the future.

Yet even now, with his son standing in the middle of the arena, armed and armored, ready for the impending battle, he couldn't hide the small smile encasing his lips. His son looked every bit the víkingr he knew Nuffink wanted to be.

Standing behind his kneeling daughters shoulder, his mere presence in the arena had begun to quiet down the rambunctious crowd that occupied the space before him, a testament to his subject's loyalty to their chief.

"Friends!" His voiced lingered clear across the space, swaying his outstretched arms far and wide, gesturing to the whole of the arena. The simple spoken word had been enough to quiet down the remainder of the crowd. "We gather on this fine summer day to test-nay, celebrate!" A chorus of agreement and cheers quickly followed the energy in his voice. He allowed their noise to continue for a moment before once again indicating for silence, which was swiftly obeyed.

"Now, we all know our reasons for these games!" pausing to catch his breath in the warm summer air, "Nevertheless this year is one of great importance to me, and to my family." He could see the obvious signs of agreement his fellow Berkians shared across their faces. "It is the day my young son joins the ranks of our úlfheðnar! Our warriors!" There was loud ensemble of agreement and glee among the already proven warriors of Berk, obviously years spent riding dragons had not diminished from the fact that at its core, Berk was a warrior clan, a víkingr clan.

"Yet now, I must ask all of you good people, and my fellow Chieftains..." swaying an arm and rotating his head to meet all of their closely watching eyes, "for a challenger!" The moment the word escaped his lips, he felt there had been a grave mistake made, for an awkward and terrible silence fell upon the arena. Everyone seemed to be looking around, waiting for a voice to make itself known. Obviously no one from Berk would dare challenge the heir, not only would it be political suicide but it would also cause immeasurable amounts of controversy within the tribe if Nuffink was defeated by a fellow Berkian in front of a crowd such as this.

"I will challenge the young prince!" came a foreign voice from somewhere in the stands. Swinging his head to the direction of the voice, his arm still positioned at the other chiefs, Hiccup searched the stands for it's owner. The crowd of the arena likewise followed their chiefs movements. Finally a arm stretched out from the mass, and from it appeared a man.

"Rather I say, my man will challenge your son." the man boldly stated, his raised arm slowly falling to gesture at Nuffink in the center of the arena. He was dressed in fine battle-leathers, a thick white wolf's pelt slung over his shoulders and down his back, held in place by a thick gold chain with connected sigils that seemed to portray the great evil, Fenrir. The man had a thick black beard that extended a hilts-length past his chin, yet his hair was well kept, and tied in a short knot on the back of his skull. He was obviously of royal or wealthy blood.

Realizing he had yet to give the man an answer, he furrowed his brow and spoke clearly, "and who are you, stranger, to put forth a challenger?" his arm had once again fallen to his side, his eldered eyes keen on the man before him.

"I am Jarl Æstur! Of Skelter!" the man stated almost defiantly. Hiccup knew the tone well, it was one he had used with his own father countless times a great many winters ago. It had also occurred to Hiccup that this was indeed the first time the leader of the Skelterian's had shown himself. It had been a matter of debate within his court as to the identity of their leader as the longships that carried the Skelterians had declared their Jarl was on his way and that they had sailed ahead of him to make their presence known in advance.

Taking a measure of the man, he looked young, but not infantile. Easily past his twentieth summer on midgard, the man looked every bit the warrior the Skelter reputation had persisted. He was tall, yet not a mountain amongst men, and built closely to his good friend Eret, with hard muscle packed under presumably thick skin. Nonetheless there was something in the expression of the Jarl that unsettled the Chieftain. His face appeared emotionless, yet hidden under trying to break the surface was one of curiosity and defiance. Hiccup had never claimed to be able to read all men the way he was reading the young Jarl now, but the look he had received only convinced him of his thoughts.

"Very well, Jarl, send forth your man!" Hiccup finally said, the words followed by an explosion of cheers and hollars from the crowd. Their noise masking the sound of the gate to the arena rising once again, it's mechanisms straining against the weight of the wood and iron. Hiccup had turned to return to his seat and let the match begin when his friend Eret Eretsson stepped forward from his viewing point behind the leading families seating.

"Your son will be fine, ay Chief," He stated as-of-matter-of-factly. "Got training from yours truly his entire life, good student that one!" he gave a wink and threw his beefy arm out, gesturing to Hiccup's young son. Hiccup could all but return a small smile before locking his eyes back on the exposed entrance to the arena, waiting for Jarl Æstur's man. A familiar feeling rushing into his mind, doubt. It was a feeling he had become accustomed too in his youth and during his first days as chief. However since had been a distant and alien emotion he didn't enjoy feeling. He had doubt's for his son and he had yet to even see the champion who was going to challenge his young boy.

* * *

Rising from the tunnel, a shadow had began to take form. It's movement slow and seemingly calculated, the light jingle of armor and mail rattling through the tunnel furthermore echoing out into the arena. Finally near the exit of the tunnel and under the heavy gate, the shadow slowly turned into a man brought on by the warm summer rays that breached through openings in the gate. Coated in a black breastplate covering only his chest, the rest of his torso draped under a tightly woven light mail that clung to the man's body. It was a simple yet effective design that protected the vital organs of the man's chest, but allowed for flexing and twisting of the torso without forgoing it's protection. Nevertheless what seemed the most interesting part of his armor was the fact that only one arm was actually covered in armor at all. Starting at the right shoulder a large thick black leather shoulder pad sat, the white wolf sigil of the _Skeltersson_ sat embroidered into it. Trailing down from arm withal, were overlapping segments of plate armor running down the length of the man's arm, effectively turning his entire ligament into a shield yet still allowing a maximum range of movement and rotation. It was capped off by a simple black plate-style helmet covering the entire face barring small openings for the eyes. On top of the armor and perhaps one of the strangest things Zephyr had ever seen, was the fact that the man didn't wield a shield at all, abdicating the additional protection for a dagger and short sword instead.

Zephyr and the rest of the crowd in attendance marveled at _the_ _warrior-the creature_, that stood before them. From what she could tell by his entirely exposed left arm save his arm ring, the man was built like a god, bulging muscles trying to tear their very way out of the armor. At nearly a full foot taller than Nuffink, the warrior was an intimidating specimen to even look at, and the entire time she stared at the man the only thought that repeated in her head was that her brother, Nuffink, was going to have to _fight _that thing.

The warrior stopped a few paces in front of her brother and held a deathly stare-a warrior's stare. It wasn't the stare of someone who came to fight for sport, it was the stare of someone who came to kill. Her mother must have felt the same way she did, just by glancing back to her seated position, Zephyr could see the worry written on her face. It was plain and simple; it was the look of a mother fearing for her child. Turning her attention back to the man, she watched as the challenger shared a quick glance to the Skeltarian leader, Jarl Æstur. No words were shared between the two men, only a polite nod to the warrior was given. Followed by Jarl Æstur settling back into a bench, cupping his hands together in front of him, an emotionless stare written across his face.

Rotating her head back once again, she looked to her father, now seated in his over-watching chair. Deep down, she wanted to tell him to not let the battle go through. She wanted to tell him this creature was not here for sport. The wrenching feeling in her stomach was almost unbearable, howbeit that's all it was, a gut feeling, and no matter how right her gut feelings had been in the past, they didn't justify taking away her brothers glory. The battle would go on, and Zephyr prayed to Odin that her stupid kid brother Nuffink would walk away from it victorious.

She watched her father take a small gulp, the stone in his throat throwing itself up then down once again before he looked over to the horn-bearer, giving a small but noticeable nod. The horn-bearer, who had been watching the chief with anxious eyes, nodded back and turned to the great jörmungandr horn he had settled beside. Sucking in all the air his lungs could hold before giving the horn a long, boisterous, and alleviating blast.

Almost immediately, not sparing the time for Zephyr to focus back on the two warriors, the foreign warrior pounced on her brother, who was easily been taken back by the quick action. The loud metal clang rang out across the arena as the powerful blow of the warriors sword met the middle of Nuffink's shield. It had been the first strike, and it had been an potunt one. The single blast sending Nuffink retreating on his own footsteps. The arena erupted with the action, warriors from all the tribes watching carefully to the sound of thunderous cheering.

Regaining his stature, Nuffink rolled his shoulders and begun to circle his opponent, axe and shield at the ready. _Good, remember your training, know your enemy! _Zephyr watched with utter anticipation, training her eyes back and forth between the warrior and her brother. The challenger however seemed relaxed, his sword and dagger down by his sides, held by the powerful grip of his fists.

This time Nuffink thrust forward to his opponent, attempting to use his shield as a battering ram to throw the man off his stride. What had probably seemed like a calculated move to the young warrior immediately became a regretful one as the larger warrior simply _absorbed_ the hit from the shield with his arms and chest before shrugging Nuffink off like a child.

Instantly the challenger pounced again, engaging directly with Nuffink. His swings were powerful and direct, and her brother could all but attempt to deflect blow after blow, trying to find small gaps in the onslaught for axe-swings of his own.

This warrior was far better than Nuffink, and it was becoming increasingly apparent. Some of the watching Berkians who had jeered and applauded the action were now standing in shock and concern for their future chief. It was a simple notion to understand, Nuffink did not belong in the arena with a man of this caliber and stock.

* * *

_Blow after blow_, Nuffink could feel the wooden shield starting to give. It's splinters flying off in every direction. In an attempt to push the man off, Nuffink gave his axe a swing around the shield. It was a poor attempt but had worked to the desired effect, the path of the blade forcing the warrior to take a quick backstep to dodge his axe.

Hoping to seize the moment of relief, Nuffink thrust forward again, this time a throat curtling war cry left his mouth, axe in hand, the most powerful swing he could muster from his battered arms was ready to be unleashed on the warrior. It was a last ditch effort to take the obviously far more experienced warrior by surprise.

_Funny thing about surprises though, they only work if your opponent isn't expecting them. _As if a god with the ability to read the minds of men, the warrior sidestepped the attack and used the dagger in his shield-arm to cut the shield from Nuffinks arm. Literally tearing it away and discarding it to the side, it fell with a loud metallic _clunk _to the ground of the arena, the last bits of splintered wood scattering around the shields final resting point. The sudden unbalance of his shield being torn away combined with the swing of his axe was enough for Nuffink to throw himself to the ground face first. His head smashing into the ground with a sickening crunch.

Coming too what Nuffink could only concur was a few moments later was enough to cause voice for concern, if the ringing bells in his head weren't doing an excellent job at that already. He could no longer hear the cheers of his tribesmen, no longer the thunderous yelps and hollars. In fact, Nuffink couldn't really hear anything at all besides the ringing.

His vision wasn't far better, blurry and fading, it seemed as though dark circles had creeped into the edges of his sight and were eating away at whatever blurred images he could still see. What image he could see, was the phantom shadow of his opponent, the warrior in black, moving closer to Nuffink with every passing moment. A small shadow sliver protruded from the man, which Nuffink could only assume was the man's sword.

_This was it_, he thought, _this is how I die._ The fear and doubt returning to him in a sudden rush, _I have failed my family, I have failed by father. I am a failure. _He yearned to move, but his muscles refused him, he was stuck and not sure how to proceed. He could only watch as the shadowy figure reared back his arm then swung. In the moment before his world went black, he could have sworn he heard his name...

* * *

Lúka - Fini

* * *

_Some special notes._

_1\. The Höfðingjar were chieftains and jarl's who were chosen by the people they governed. So the title of this fic roughly means "To be a Leader Chosen by the People" which is translated to two of our main characters; Nuffink and Hiccup. One being the son who seeks to become höfðingjar and the other being the father who seeks for his son to prove himself worthy to become a höfðingjar._

_2\. The __úlfheðnar were special warriors in viking society, they were considered as the "Warriors of Odin" and refused to wear armor in battle (badass if you ask me). So by attempting to prove himself worthy, Nuffink is trying to become one of the úlfheðnar._

_3\. Nuffink is younger than Zephyr-yes, and according to the wikia, Zephyr is the heir to Berk-I know. But if we're playing this one out historically, viking society was still dominated by men, even though women in viking society were far more liberated than their foreign nation counterparts._

_Thanks for reading!_

_As always, constructive criticism is welcome._

_~Ferro Meris_


End file.
